she permitted her joy in her child to dominate her life too
visibly; at any rate it soon began to annoy her husband. He had been
so accustomed to all of Denasia's time and attention that he could not
endure to be put off until baby was asleep, or until some trifling
want of baby's had been attended to. He fancied that her attention was
divided; that even when she appeared to be listening to his complaints
or his intentions, her heart was with the child and her ears listening
for its crying. The transient pleasure he had experienced in the
little one's birth soon passed away, and an abiding sense of petty
jealousy and wrong took its place.

"You are for ever nursing that crying little creature, Denasia," he
said one day when he returned to their small, warm room in a fever of
annoyance at some unappreciative manager. "No one can get your
attention for five minutes. You hear nothing I say. You take no
interest in anything I do. And the little torment is for ever and for
ever crying."

"Baby is sick, Roland. And who is there to care for him but me?"

"We ought to be doing something. Winter is coming on. Companies are
already on the road; you will find it hard to get a position of any
kind, soon."

"I will go out to-morrow. I am strong enough now, I think."

"I can find nothing suitable. People seem to take an instant dislike
to me."

"That is nonsense! You were always a favourite."

"I have had to sell most of my jewelry in order to provide for your
sickness, Denasia. Of course I was glad to do it, you know that,
but----"

"But it is my duty now, Roland. I will begin to-morrow."

So the next day Denasia went to the agencies, and Roland promised to
take care of baby. A two weeks of exhausting waiting and seeking, of
delayed hope and destroyed hope, followed; and Denasia was forced to
admit that she had made no impression on the managerial mind. No one
had heard of her singing and dancing, and those who condescended to
listen were not enthusiastic.

"You see," said one of the kindest of these caterers for the public's
pleasure--"you see, New Yorkers have no ideas about fisher men and
women. If their fish is fresh, that is all that troubles them. If they
think about the men who catch it, they very likely think of them as
living comfortably in flats with all the modern improvements. A good
topical song, a spirited dance--they are the things that fetch."

In different forms this was the general verdict, and every